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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554350">Thieves in the Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfinishedProject/pseuds/UnfinishedProject'>UnfinishedProject</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Banter, Canon Compliant, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Historical References, Humor, Language of Flowers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Reunions, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:00:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfinishedProject/pseuds/UnfinishedProject</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>That crow would be haunting your life it seemed, appearing unexpected years after you saw it first. Yet you still followed it to its nook in the heart of London, finding there a glimmer — one of hope to change the fate of your life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jacob Frye/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thieves in the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A sudden gust of cold air, despite February being remarkably warm, and a dull thud, reminiscent of a door being slammed but softer, woke you in the middle of the night. Spent matches filled the tray as you hastened to light the oil lamp by the bed, watching for anything suspicious out of the corner of your eyes. But the only one in the room, now filled with the warm golden light, was you; and nothing seemed amiss. The floor creaked under your feet as you slipped from the bed and the chilled air urged you to pull a robe over your nightgown.
</p><p>The first thought that ran through your mind, before the need to light the lamp, was a burglary. Then the possibility of your stepfather’s stance on the past years' politics and Reform Acts drawing the ire of some individuals, targeting you in their revenge. However, you realised as the fog of sleep cleared your mind, that the back, or even front, door would have been a more advantageous or practical point of entrance than your window. A window that faced the yard, closed off from the streets of London by tall, brick fences, and was situated on the second floor of the house — rather unreachable, a fact you did not forget to lament on to yourself at the beginning of each <i>season</i>.
</p><p>The door, with the key in the lock standing as you left it the night prior, was still locked, not budging when you pulled on it; only giving a rattle at your light shake. You have been all alone in your room and only your imagination had been playing tricks on you. With your previous assessments about the position of your window, you doubted there was anyone able to enter without wings — yet you still made your way across the room. Unlike around the time you arrived at the city, the glass pane was clear of frost, however you could not see much farther than the ring of light the oil lamp in your hand cast. Your eyes caught some movement on a roof nearby; but you shrugged it off as a tomcat on the prowl for a mate, and the gaslight from the streets only reflected off a bell around its neck and nothing more.
</p><p>Despite the late, or rather, early, hour, you did not feel like sleeping. Your bed, with its numerous, soft pillows and warm, comforting covers, was inviting, but sleep came to your eyes with difficulties. The expectations towards you, that your mother found more and more pressing with each year, were weighing down on you — even worse than most other time of the year with Valentine's Day just around the corner. No doubt you would be receiving a number of compositions from those vying for your hand, and the inheritance you should receive upon your marriage; but they would all come with empty messages of love and fidelity, of innocence and truthfulness.
</p><p>You were just thinking about how to best reject the advances or dispose of the gifts you had no mind to accept when a bouquet of flowers left on your vanity caught your eyes. Though calling it a bouquet might have been an overstatement about the hastily wrapped cavalcade of flowers that played in various shades of white, yellow and violet. You were certain it was not there when you retired to your room. It was a charming mess of snowdrops and heather, of hellebore and primrose — something your mother would dismiss as <i>a handful of weed</i>.
</p><p>Instead of a ribbon holding it all together, a length of string was wrapped around the stems with a piece of folded paper attached. It was no ordinary calling card, the front depicting a sketch of a crow that held a chess piece in its beak. You have seen that illustration only once, a few years back, in a sketchbook that was left lying around on the bar — although snatched from your fingers before you could have dived into it further. You have all but forgotten about him, Jacob, you recalled from some depth of your memories. It was a one-off meeting that weekend you spent at your uncle's house. You snuck out of the house after a terribly boring dinner and visited the nearest public house, regardless of its fame or infamy; the less savoury the place, the less likely someone could recognise you was your stream of reasoning.
</p>
<p>The gambling tables wouldn't let you join, and you were left to watch the rounds of games. The sketchbook was by your elbow for the longest time as you were perched on a chair, tempting you in your exclusion to take just a peek inside. The hand falling on your shoulder scared you for a moment, but the words <i>"I'll be taking that, love."</i> whispered into your ear soothed your fear with the slightest effort. It was then his friends, if they were that, shouted across the inn for him to hurry that you learnt his name — wishing you had also learnt all there was to know about him.
</p><p>But it seemed Fate was kind to you, offering you another chance in the short letter that came with your flowers. It was only a couple lines, in a handwriting you found surprisingly neat, informing you about a carriage that would take you to some mysterious destination the following night. There was only a single initial,<i> J</i>, signed, but enough for you to know it was not only a coincidence. The how of the flowers and letter finding their way to your vanity was not the only question unanswered but you were certain you would not get to know before the next nightfall.
</p><p>Sleep and dreams came even harder to your eyes, anxious about the meeting. It was not impossible that it was a trap, a plot against your step-father that you had the misfortune to get tangled up in — but the flowers by their nature, ones found blooming with ease in the wild even at this time of the year, lead you to believe the intentions were genuine.
</p>
<hr/><p>The grey London day seemed to slog even more. Your mother had fret over when it was near impossible to wake you up in time for church, and the book you found plenty interesting the day before you now struggled to read. The words did not make sense and you caught yourself reading the same lines over and over as your imagination teased you with possibilities. Some part of you still entertained the thought that it was nothing more than an overly elaborate plan for your kidnapping, but you were all too happy to climb into the carriage that was to take you God only knew where.</p><p>When you came to a halt and emerged, you were surprised to find yourself still in the heart of the city — unsure why you expected something seedier than <i>The Crown</i>. Maybe because the first impression left you with the image of a young vagrant that could only afford piss-poor ale unless he cheated at the cards, but it seemed you severely underestimated him.
</p><p>The pub was filled with people, some from higher and some from lower classes than you — not that you cared much for politics or social standings. You avoided a collision with some inebriated patron who mistook you for a lady of the night before arriving at the back, at a table that had been distinctly marked for you with the same symbol of a crow and chess piece on a piece of paper. <i>Was this a game of riddles and chase?</i> But the piece that bore the drawing was snatched from your hands before you could see if it contained a new message.
</p><p>"I'll be taking that, love." There was more depth to the voice than there had been a few years ago, sounding rough and mature for what you assumed of his age. You could still find that lightness in it, that mischievous ease the same phrase rolled off his lips in the past. But, instead of making you feel ashamed for something you were not supposed to do, the words incited you in a way you were not prepared for. Or perhaps it was just the hand settling on your hip and guiding you to sit on one of the cushioned benches, standing awful close behind for a moment, that emboldened you in a way a lady of your standing should not be.
</p><p>"Is that <i>all</i> you want to take?" Your mother would have suffered a heart attack if she had borne witness to your shameless behaviour — but it only earned a hearty chuckle from Jacob, settled into the corner of your booth with feet kicked up on his side of the benches. Momentarily you were distracted by a barmaid bringing out an order you have not placed, no less your preferred choice of drink. You opted not to remark on it, fairly certain it was his doing, only wondering if it was just a coincidence or if he knew more about you than you felt comfortable with.
</p><p>"Maybe. Maybe not." He raised his pint at you, accompanying it with a wink that had you shaking your head — he would not give you a straight answer, would he? As charming a devil he was, as infuriating he could be.
</p><p>You sat for a moment longer in silence and you kept the gaze of those blue eyes that one watched you being dragged away helpless. He has matured since then, and it was not just heavy stubble or the passage of years making you say that. There were scars, ones you found did not take away from the pleasantness of his appearance, that you did not recall from your brief meeting in Crowley — and circles under his eyes that made him look older than he probably was. If you wanted to be honest with yourself, you could have kept on observing him for long minutes to come but your curiosity was starting to get the better of you. "Why am I here?"
</p><p>Part of you expected him to counter with the same question and you would not be able to answer what made you come. He did not mean much, if any at all, to you; you barely even knew him. You were curious but there was not that many possibilities to deem one as an acceptable explanation behind the flowers' unexpected appearance. It was true that he was handsome, but that was not an appeal in itself for you — otherwise you would be engaged for some months now. There was, without a doubt, something attracting you to him but whatever it may be, you needed some more time on his side to find it out.
</p><p>"I need a small favour." You eyed him with suspicion, thumb brushing up and down the glass of your untouched drink — you did not quite believe the favour was actually small. Your first thought was money to what it could be but, considering all the facts and the almost romantic gesture of flowers, you were uncertain it would be that. Besides, he could borrow from someone he surely knows better; there would be no reason to go through the trouble of locating you in London.
</p><p>Inappropriate images filled your mind after such conclusion, dusting your cheeks with the heat of your thoughts. It seemed just as unlikely as the latter, some boroughs of the city plenty accommodating in that regard; though that would at least explain the bouquet. You rid yourself of the thoughts, and the revelation that perhaps you would not even mind it as much you should, only for your fear of being abducted due to your step-father's political involvement to circle back around. But even that reasoning lost its credibility — Jacob might have looked more charms than brains on first glance but even he could not be as daft as to make a public appearance with you.
</p><p>"What would it be? Money? A night of passion?" His lips pulled into a smirk, mirroring your own expression as you listed off questions, making you pause and forget what else you wanted to ask. That roguish charm, that was quite different from your potential suitors', should not have such an effect on you — but there was little you would not give if the price was him, even if for just a night. You would not say such instincts or acts were below you, quite the contrary, but you tried not to let your desires drag your or your family's name through the mud.
</p><p>"Sounds promising but not this time." There were equal parts disappointment and relief following his words, with something in his voice telling you that you did not need to wait such long time for that to happen if that was something you wished for. "The banquet of Lord Roberts. I need to be there."
</p><p>There was a shift in his tone, serious and lacking all the mischief that had you smile throughout the evening. He sat up more and you could not help the shudder creeping down your spine. It was not that he frightened you, the anxious twist of your insides seemed to come from another place entirely, but it felt less of a favour now and more like a demand. You tried not to imagine what could happen should you refuse, although you were not considering denying him help.
</p><p>"And what do I get out of it?" It was not like you to ask for compensation for favours that were, in fact, small — but you would be risking more than not being repaid in the future. You were known, sometimes to your misfortune, in higher circles and you would attract quite a scandal if his intentions for attending were less than savoury.
</p><p>"You get to spend time with me?" Mischief seemed to glint in his eyes for a moment and a short chuckle, more of a huff of laughter, spilled from his lips. The offer was tempting; although you were unsure if one evening of amusement was worth inciting your mother's wrath. Should she find out you attended with someone of questionable reputation, or perhaps a terrible one given you did not even know his full name, you could say farewell to that fragment of freedom you could nick among the various social expectations weighing on you.
</p><p>"Well, I do happen to have an invitation," you teased, voice light despite your earlier thoughts as you offered him a fact he was more than likely aware of or would not have sought you out,  "but what reason do you have? If you drag me into an affair that's against the law-"
</p><p>"I'd never, love. Promise." You wanted to believe and trust him with all your heart, but you could not help but assume something sinister about the urgency and desperation of such a favour. Although, if that was indeed the case, you would be better off not knowing of his plans — have deniability and lower your involvement. A gloved hand, seemingly out of thin air, came to hold your right; his lips brushing against your knuckles as if to reassure he would never cause you harm. As nice it seemed, it was not a fairy tale you were living but the reality of London that was filled with all sorts of people with all sorts of motives and ambitions.
</p><p>"All right," you heaved a sigh, trying to ignore how the brush of his thumb across your skin made you feel. "I can get you inside. But we can't keep meeting like this." There was a coy implication in your voice that you wanted more out of this partnership than you were currently offered, after all, he promised you his time — an implication for something even your parents could not take offense of. As enjoyable time with Jacob was, you were unsure how long you could stave off your mother's wrath with harmless lies about your activities.
</p><p>"Can't or shouldn't?" His hand took hold of yours again, fingers wrapped around your wrist with just enough force to stop you in your stride. Blue eyes fixed you with an amusement that was not lacking throughout the evening but had a different edge to it; heated, passionate — or maybe you just wanted to believe you were more than just entertainment for him.
</p><p>"I'll let you decide, Jacob." Your lips brushed against his barely so, allowing you for a taste of the stout he drank, uncertain where that boldness or foolishness came from. There was a smirk on your lips at his stumped silence, his lapse in focus allowing you to disentangle yourself from his hold — and you walked out of the pub, no matter how much you wished he would keep you from leaving.</p>
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